


you are still every ounce of light

by valety



Series: that we two might be one [2]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Royalty, Arranged Marriage, Implied/Referenced Past Abuse, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Other, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-10
Updated: 2016-04-10
Packaged: 2018-06-01 07:51:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6509335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/valety/pseuds/valety
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The end of the weeks-long celebration of the royal wedding is marked by a formal ball. Chara’s not looking forward to it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	you are still every ounce of light

**Author's Note:**

> "how self-indulgent can I get”, the fanfic, the motion picture, the animated series, the comic book, the video game, the junior novelization
> 
> as with before, don't worry too much about the setting. if there are any inconsistencies or plot holes, just pretend they're elements of the universe this takes place in and not a side effect of my writing inability
> 
> also I know Certain Character doesn't normally appear with Certain Other Characters but it's called "artistic licence" ok
> 
> warnings for references to self harm and violent impulses, past abuse/misgendering/suicide attempt, and minor violence towards the end 
> 
> title comes from [this poem](http://inkskinned.com/post/130580319489/we-never-heard-music-but-people-made-us-dance)

“I would describe the feeling as _disappointment._ ”

“Well, how was _I_ supposed to know that you don’t care for such things? The arrangements were made long before we even met,” Asriel answers peevishly.

“You should have known _anyway,"_ you say, but you tweak his ear affectionately to show that you’re not truly angry. He doesn’t seem to notice, however, being far too busy sulking.

“We were told that they’re very popular among human nobles,” Asriel protests. “No reasonable person would take that as a sign to be concerned that you might have a...a _personal grudge_ against them.”

“I’m barely human, prince,” you reply. “You can’t judge me by reasonable human standards.”

Before he can offer any of his standard reassurances— _you’re a fine human, the finest one there is, don’t talk about yourself as though you’re an animal_ —you give him a firm kiss and whatever he’s about to say is forgotten.

You had retreated to the library with the intention of burying yourself in books and forgetting about the news you had received at dinner. However, it seems Asriel knows you well enough by now to have both picked up on your carefully-concealed distress and to know exactly where to find you, forcing you to confront what you’d been trying to ignore.

In the days following the wedding, you and Asriel had been showered with gifts and well wishes by a seemingly endless parade of nobles, yet the formal celebrations had quickly segued into pure revelry, carrying on long past the end of the official reception. It seems that monsters love having an excuse to party, and so everything deemed boring had been put on hold in favour of continuing the festivities.

It was frustrating. You enjoyed fun as much as the next person, but you had come prepared to work and study, eager to participate in council meetings and petitioner’s court like a noble with _actual influence_ for once. As the weeks dragged on, you quickly grew impatient. You may know next to nothing about politics, but you want the opportunity to _learn_ , to demonstrate your intelligence. Nobody is expecting it of you and it’s precisely for that reason that you’re so eager to do it. You will _not_ just be a pretty human pet for the future monster king. You have ambitions, and even if you don’t yet know the best way to carry them out, nothing’s going to stop you from seeing them come to fruition.

Despite your impatience, you somehow managed to endure the weeks of foolishness, until finally, it seemed the period of revelry was coming to an end.

And then you were told that it was doing so in the most unpleasant way imaginable: with a formal ball.

Ugh.

You’d have much preferred another tourney. It’s always fun to watch the knights swinging and lunging at each other.

“It was organized with you in mind,” Asriel says when you grow tired of kissing him and let go. He still sounds pettish, in that _how dare you not be delighted by something I’m trying to do for you?_ way of his, but there’s something apologetic in his tone as well. “Everyone was worried that you’d feel out of place. They thought preparing some kind of human entertainment would make you feel more at home.”

“I appreciate the thought,” you say, trying to be kind. “But I want you to know that I have no intention whatsoever of going. Furthermore, if I’m somehow dragged there against my will, then I will spend the entire evening sitting in the corner, cranky and miserable and stuffing my face with butter tarts.”

“You’ll dance with me at least _once,_ won’t you?” Asriel pleads.

You pat his hand. “I’ll consider it,” you promise.

You suppose you don’t really have a choice, despite whatever power Asriel seems to believe you have. Unlike the festivities of recent weeks, the ball is being held specifically in your honour. To not attend would be a grave insult, especially as it will double as your formal introduction to the court. You doubt it would make a very good impression for the prince’s new consort to be absent at their own introduction. Besides, if you want to have any genuine political influence, you’ll need to win over as many people as possible. That means working with the opportunities you have, and this is nothing if not an opportunity.

Across from you, Asriel looks uncharacteristically gloomy. Poor thing. He’s probably disappointed by your lack of enthusiasm. You should cheer him up.

You slide the book you’d been reading across the table.

“What’s this?” he asks, perking up slightly.

“A collection of poetry,” you reply, resting your elbows on the table and propping up your chin. “You promised to woo me, remember? You may begin by finding what you believe to be the most romantic poem in that book and reading it aloud to me.”

You think that Asriel would blush if his face wasn’t already covered in white fur. Nevertheless, he obediently cracks open the book and begins slowly turning over the pages in search of a fitting poem.

He doesn’t read particularly well, you conclude as he stumbles over a sonnet. He’s clumsy and prone to stuttering, most likely due to his embarrassment. Still, your eyes fall shut as you listen, letting his voice soak into your memory. He may not read well, but he does so for you and you alone, and for that reason, it’s something you intend to treasure.

“That was awful,” you say when Asriel is finished. He gives a little squawk of indignation, but you ignore him, reaching over to snatch the book out of his hands and open it to the page that bears your own favourite poem. “I shall read to _you_ now, so that you may see how it _should_ be done.”

Although Asriel had looked displeased a moment ago, his eyes soften as your own voice fills the room.

The rest of the evening passes quietly, with you and Asriel taking turns reading poetry to each other. Neither one of you brings up the ball again, and by the time the two of you have gone to bed, you’ve almost forgotten about it entirely.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Despite only having known Asriel for little over a month, you’d somehow managed to convince yourself that you could trust him completely. That was apparently a mistake, as you discovered after about a week of sharing a bed with him. It seems that sharing such an intimate space isn’t all stolen kisses and tender embraces; it’s also heat and tangled limbs and general discomfort, leading to more than one restless night. You’ve even twice awakened on the floor after having been knocked over the edge by Asriel rolling in his sleep.

Fortunately, you’ve finally begun to work out something vaguely resembling a comfortable arrangement. You most often wake up lying on top of him these days, as though Asriel himself is your mattress, his arms wrapped loosely around your waist as he hugs you to his chest. This way, you don’t have to battle one another for space. Furthermore, because Asriel has a tendency to cling, you’re more secure than you would be lying beside him. At the very least, you don’t get knocked off the edge any more, although you _are_ occasionally flattened by him rolling over while holding you.

That is how you awaken the morning after receiving the news of the ball: curled upon his chest and filled with contentment. The light filtering through the gap in the drapes tells you that it must be early still, but you rarely fall back asleep upon waking, and so you yawn, stretch, and slip out of his arms, leaving him to rest a little while longer.

Once you’re dressed, you begin to make your way outside. You’ll have breakfast later, when Asriel is awake to eat with. For now, you just might be early enough to catch the knights.

All official business may have been put on hold in favour of pleasure, but the royal guards can’t afford to risk getting soft by taking too much time off. Besides, for many members of the guard, training _is_ pleasure. Thus, morning practice has continued in recent weeks, albeit with a much more lax attendance policy.

You don’t observe their practices officially. You expect your presence wouldn’t be particularly welcome. They would likely assume that you’re there to evaluate them, meaning they would either become rude or attempt to show off for you. You don’t want to disrupt anything; you merely wish to observe for your own enjoyment. So as to avoid drawing their attention, you most often watch from the stone wall that surrounds the training grounds. From there, you’re high up enough that it’s unlikely any of them will ever notice you. If they do, you can easily pretend that you weren’t actually watching, merely passing over on your way somewhere.

Once you reach your usual observation point, your eyes are automatically drawn to the captain, as always. Even from a distance, you can see how confident her every movement with a longstaff is. She’s strong, powerful, self-assured.

Envy simmers in your gut.

If only you could be like that.

You may have spent your teenage years confined, but you’ll give your captors credit. They weren’t _completely_ inhumane. They let you have books, at least, on the sole condition that you stop attacking them when they bring you food. Those books quickly became your favourite way to pass the time, aside from visiting with Frisk when they were able to sneak away.

You read stories about brave knights and fierce dragons and princesses in towers endlessly. Over time, you came to see yourself in them. How could you not? You had little else to think about.

But while initially you saw yourself as one of the captive princesses, you quickly came to wonder—why limit your fantasies? If you’re going to imagine an escape that will never come, why not _be_ the knight? Why not take up a sword and travel the land in search of evildoers, rescuing innocents, battling injustice, and saving the world with your wits and your blade?

Why not be the dragon sometimes, destroying all who try and stop you from carving out a space for yourself? Why even choose at all? Who’s to say you can’t be damaged and tender and heroic and ferocious all at once?

You sigh.

You’re weak. Pale and spindly and pathetic. You were never expected to take up a weapon or lead an army, not the way some royals are. You were instead trained to be an ornament of the court, taught such insipid skills as how to curtsy and embroider, and then you were locked away, where you only grew more feeble over time. Even if you asked to be taught how to fight, you’re not strong enough to be useful. Everyone would just assume that you’re a spoiled noble playing at being warrior as a means of alleviating boredom, demanding time and attention that the knights simply cannot spare.

You have too much pride for that. You won’t let yourself be a burden, not if you can help it. Not if nobody will understand how sincere your desire to be powerful is.

“Found you,” a voice says beside your ear. You almost jump.

“You’re up early,” you comment as you turn around.

“I wanted to take advantage of my last few days here,” Frisk explains, voice soft. It’s rare for you to hear their voice at all, considering how infrequently they spoke among humans. You guess they just feel more comfortable with monsters. “I’ll be leaving soon and there’s still a lot I haven’t seen.”

“Don’t _say_ that. I’m trying to maintain a state of denial.”

“I’m sorry.”

“It feels like you’ve barely been here at all. You should stay forever,” you declare, and Frisk gives you a faint smile.

“As much as I might like to, I have things to do,” they say.  

Things like seeing to the aftermath of your convoy’s assassination attempt, you guess.

“Sorry about that.”

Frisk giggles. “It’s not your fault. Besides, you have work to do as well. Right?”

“Of course I do. Just as soon everyone decides it’s finally time to get back down to business.” Your mouth curves into a smirk. “I’m looking forward to attending my first council meeting. They _have_ to listen to me here. And if they don’t, I’ll just introduce them to one of my dearest friends.”

The friend in question is a knife. A dagger, to be exact, one that had once been used for gardening. It was taken away from you following your suicide attempt; you hadn’t been expecting to ever see it again, but then you’d woken up one night to find it being held over you. Through a series of happy accidents, it wound up back in your possession, and you don’t intend to ever let it go again.

“Now, Chara,” Frisk says, mock-serious. “Peace is no good if it’s brought about through violent means. You don’t want to be remembered as a dictator, do you?"

“Yes I do. I might actually get things done that way.”

Frisk laughs, but at the sound, your own smile falls.

You’re more comfortable around monsters than you’ve ever been around humans, and you genuinely care for Asriel, despite your initial misgivings about him. But Frisk has long been your sanctuary—they were your only friend, the only person you could trust to never use you or control you, and their occasional stolen visits were the only thing that kept you sane throughout those long, lonely years were you had only books for company.

While you theoretically _can_ imagine a life without them—you were separated for quite some time, after all—you sure don’t want to. You’ve missed these easy conversations, bantering back-and-forth without having to worry that your conversation partner might be unsettled by the things you say.

“When do you leave?” you ask. You already know, of course, but you have to say _some_ thing, lest the two of you become consumed by an uncomfortable silence.

“After the ball,” Frisk replies.

“Are you planning on attending?”

“Of course!” they say, clapping their hands together happily. “It sounds like fun! I want to dance and eat and drink until I get sick and pass out.”

“Of course you do,” you mutter.

Bah. That settles it, then. Asriel likely would have indulged you had you told him you were serious about not going, but if this stupid ball is going to be Frisk’s last night, then you can’t very well miss it.

“I’ll be there as well,” you say, voice stiff.

“That’s nice,” Frisk says sweetly, as if you ever even had a choice.

Their palm slips into yours, small and soft. You give it a gentle squeeze, then fall silent as you watch the captain of the guard send her opponent reeling yet again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You’re not really in the mood for breakfast afterwards, so you simply grab some bread and honey from the kitchen before retreating to the garden. Frisk has friends to see, apparently, else you’d have stayed with them. As it is, you’ll hide somewhere Asriel can find you so that you can give him the satisfaction of knowing you so well.

The castle gardens are as lovely as ever. They’re apparently tended to by the king himself, which strikes you as even more remarkable than the actual flowers are. Human nobles have a tendency to be overly fixated on propriety, but monsters only care about the beauty of a thing. It would be unseemly for a human king to personally water his roses, but King Asgore can get his hands as dirty as he likes and no one bats an eye. His flowers are instead  believed to be all the more beautiful because they’re tended to by someone with a genuine love for them.

You can appreciate that. There’s something to be said about a people who see the value of a thing as being inextricably bound to its sincerity.

You linger by a fountain, admiring the blossoms floating on the water as you wait for Asriel to find you. Sure enough, he appears by your side but a few minutes later, looking pleased with himself.

“I thought I saw you!” he crows. “I missed you this morning.”

“I was with Frisk,” you explain. He doesn’t need to know that you were watching the knights. You’re not sure you want to have to explain yourself.

Asriel’s face falls slightly, but you wrap your arms around him, leaning into his chest, and he immediately returns the embrace, resting his chin upon your hair.

“You said you missed me,” you say. “Did you need me for something specific?”

“Not exactly,” Asriel answers. “But I was wondering something.”

“Wondering what?”

He releases you, hesitating. Then, folding his hands neatly before him, Asriel asks, “Well, I’ve just been thinking, and...is there a _reason_ you’re so opposed to formal balls, or are you just shy?”

Ah. It’s kind of him to worry about such things. You feel a rush of affection as you watch him fidget, and really, it’s fortunate that you met Asriel as late in life as you did. Had you met when you were younger, you’d be swooning from how closely he resembles the Prince Charming of your daydreams. That, or you’d be bullying him as much as possible to try and mask how much his simple acts of kindness mean to you.  

“I suppose I’m a _little_ shy,” you admit. “I’m not really used to crowds anymore. And…”

“And?” Asriel prompts.

There’s a bench shaded by a lilac that overlooks the fountain you are standing near. In a bid for time, you go sit down, and Asriel joins you.

“As a child, I was taken to many such events,” you say. Your voice remains steady. Good. That makes it more believable. “They always wanted me to dress up and be charming and got angry if I failed. It made me feel like a doll, not a real person. A part of me feels like going would mean letting them win. But that’s foolishness, I know.”

It’s not the full truth, but it's true enough. You don’t think you can bear to explain the _real_ source of your dread. 

Beside you, Asriel contemplates.

“You don’t have to dress up or talk to anybody if you don’t want to,” he says after a moment. “You don’t have to be or do _anything_ now that you’re here. Just being Chara is enough. You don’t have to go to the ball at all, even. I can make an excuse for you.”

You sigh.

Asriel is a sweetheart, never getting angry or impatient with you. For that, you love him dearly. But he also doesn’t seem to expect very much of you at all, and while you appreciate not being treated like a failure, being treated like a child is hardly better.

“Thank you, but I don’t need you to make an excuse for me,” you say. “I don’t want to spend the entirety of our marriage hiding somewhere while you do all the work. Avoiding this would hardly set a good precedent.”

“Are you sure? Is there nothing I can do?” Asriel asks in a wheedling tone, as though he can coax you into letting him spare you from this, and you feel a prickle of irritation.

“I’m _fine,"_  you say, insistent. “I don’t need you to coddle me. I’ll attend the stupid ball, even if I won’t enjoy it, and if there are any problems, I’m sure that I’ll be more than capable of handling them myself.”

“Only if you’re sure,” Asriel says, looking doubtful.

You roll your eyes.

“I’m sure,” you answer firmly, standing.

Asriel stands as well, and although he’s quiet now, he accompanies you for the rest of your stroll through the garden.

More than once you catch his eyes on you. As for yourself, you spend the rest of the afternoon admiring the blossoms and fantasizing about the cut and thrust of a sword.

 

 

* * *

 

 

“This is ridiculous,” you say.

It’s not an insult, but a statement of objective fact. You won’t apologize and pointedly ignore the expression of mock-hurt that crosses Frisk’s face.

“It’s not ridiculous, it’s brilliant,” they say. “You’ve decided that you’re going to the ball after all, but you haven’t danced in years, so obviously you should practice, right? It’ll give you one less thing to be anxious about, and then Asriel will feel better about having been able to do something to help you.”

“It’s true, I will,” Asriel confirms.

“You call him _Asriel,”_ you observe. “When did you stop referring to him by his title?”

 _“You_ never call him by his title,” Frisk retorts.

“That’s because we’re _married._ I can call him whatever I want.”

“I told them they could,” Asriel interrupts, looking apologetic, as though he’s not the one they’re being overly-familiar with.

Frisk sticks their tongue out at you. You somehow manage to resist the urge to return the gesture. “See? Asriel and I are practically best friends now,” they say, smug. “We’re _beyond_ titles. I could even call him _darling_ if I wanted to. Right, darling?”

You raise your eyebrows at that, but Frisk ignores you in favour of skipping across the room. You turn to Asriel instead _. Darling,_ you mouth, and he flinches. You smirk.

The library isn’t a place you’d normally think to practice dancing in, but you’re not about to offer any alternatives. That would only drag the whole thing out even longer. At least the library is empty, filled with nothing but shelves and dust and light. You might make a fool of yourself, but you’ll do so with no audience but the books, and you trust them not to talk.

Frisk hefts themselves up onto the edge of the table, where they place the music box they brought with them onto their lap. They carefully wind it up and a tinny waltz begins to play. Their head bobs along with the music and they beam at you expectantly.

Asriel seems even more flustered. You can’t help but feel a little bit nervous yourself, being unsure of how to start.

Finally, he gives an awkward little bow, taking a step towards you. You remain frozen, watching as he lifts your hand to his shoulder and places his own hand on your hip.

“Is this okay?” Asriel asks.

“Of course,” you say, trying to mimic Frisk’s breezy tone. Although Asriel clearly intends to lead, it’s you who takes the first step forward, and then the two of you are moving.

The floor is carpet, not parquet, the music is ever-so-slightly out-of-tune, and you’re just as clumsy as you feared, but it’s still shockingly easy to lose yourself in the dance. The two of you are close, very close; not the closest you have ever been, but close enough for you to feel a thrill of excitement when yet another misstep causes your legs to brush against each other.

Gradually, Asriel’s steps become more confident, leading to your own steps becoming confident as well. Still, the music box winds down eventually and the two of you are forced to come to a stop.

From the table, Frisk is grinning at you.

“Shut up,” you bark.

They spread their hands innocently. “I didn’t say anything,”

“Did you want to go again?” Asriel asks, shy.

His hand is still resting on your hip. Your face grows even warmer.

“Might as well,” you say, and you very carefully ignore the look Frisk is giving you from across the room as they once again wind up the music box.

You spend the rest of the afternoon like that, gradually becoming accustomed to one another’s dancing. Occasionally, Frisk joins you; they never ask to cut in, but instead twirl and spin about the floor with an imaginary partner.

“You’re not going to do _that_ tomorrow, are you?” you ask.

“I might,” they reply easily. “I don’t need a partner. That, or I’ll dance with _everybody._ One or the other.”

You can’t quite suppress a smile of amusement, but then Asriel’s arm snakes around your waist, pulling you in closer, and all you can think about is the dance.

You only separate again when it’s time to go to dinner.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day of the ball dawns clear and mild. Yet again, you wake up long before Asriel, taking advantage of this in order to slip away and observe the knights’ morning practice.

Frisk is waiting for you this time, already perched on the edge of the wall when you arrive. They wave as you approach.

The first thing they say is, “Are you nervous about tonight?”

“Not in the slightest,” you lie.

But you _are_ nervous. More than you’d ever thought possible.

You’ve always been useless at parties. Large groups of strangers have always frightened you, even back before you learned to fear them, and being forced to mingle often led to one of your episodes. If there was any enjoyment to be had by you at such events, it was in finding ways to sneak food into your skirts while doing everything you could to avoid conversation.

At least _this_ ball will only be attended by monsters. And Frisk, of course, but Frisk is lovely enough to barely count as human. There will still be the matter of crowds, but you’ll have Asriel with you, and his presence offers greater comfort than you’d ever have thought possible.

On the other hand, he’s the one you’re most afraid of.

The thing is, Asriel is yet to see you truly lose your composure. There had been that evening where you’d burst into tears after assuming he was trying to get rid of you, but that was nothing compared to how hysterical you _could_ get. He may think he’s seen the worst of you, but nobody would feel nearly as protective of you as he does now if they knew how terrible you truly were.

More than the crowds themselves, you fear how you may react to them. You fear dissolving into panic, bursting into tears and lashing out, striking those who don’t deserve to bear the brunt of your desperation. You fear seeing the love fade from Asriel’s eyes, replaced by terror or disgust.

That, or that you’ll be reduced to a child in his eyes forever. He already dotes on you far too much. If you truly crumble, he may take it as a sign that you really _can’t_ manage by yourself.

You’re not sure which possibility is worse.

“I’ll be sure to come up with an escape plan should you need to run away,” Frisk says. “I’ve heard rumours of secret passages beneath the castle.”

“I’m perfectly capable of coming up with an escape plan myself,” you retort, immediately adding, “Not that I intend to run away.”

“There’s no shame in running,” Frisk says mildly.

“I’m not going to run when I can fight.”

“But why fight at all when there are other options?”

“Frisk, this is the reason _you’re_ the ambassador of peace and _I’m_ the…”

You pause, frowning. You’re a noble, not a soldier. If there’s any fighting to be done, you’ll only be able to do it with your words and strategies, not with a blade.

There may not be as much of a difference between the two of you as you’d like. You’re not sure how you feel about that.

“You’re the what?” Frisk asks, hopping off the edge of the wall. Their expression turns mischievous, and then they clasp their hands together, batting their eyelashes and saying, “The _love of the prince’s life?_ ”

“Oh, _disgusting...”_

“I saw the way he was looking at you during practice yesterday,” Frisk continues, sighing dreamily. “He’s completely smitten! It’s so _romantic…”_

You push them aside so that you can lean over the wall and see the training ground. The guards have already begun their practice, and you’re not about to let Frisk’s ridiculousness keep you from seeing the rest.

They join you a moment later. In completely different tone of voice, they say, “Have you ever considered joining them?”

“Joining who?” you ask.

They quirk their eyebrows and you roll your eyes.

“Of course I have,” you mutter. “But that’s not my place. My place is in the council chambers now.”

“There’s no reason why you can’t have both, you know. You’re in a different kingdom now. The rules we grew up with have no weight here.”

You snort. “That may be true, but I know myself. They may not expressly forbid me from joining them, but nobody would want me there. I’m not about to jeopardize whatever influence I have by making the guards and staff consider me a nuisance.”

Still.

_Still._

The idea has its appeal, even if you know how useless it is to dwell upon it. You can already see yourself in armour, sword and shield in hand, leaping to defend your new kingdom.

What would it be like to be strong? What would it be like to be _so_ strong that nobody ever dared hurt you again?

Your fingers begin to curl and uncurl, closing around the memory of a knife.

You want to dive and slash and _strike_ , just like the warriors below.

“Chara,” says a quiet voice beside you. A small palm slips into yours.

“I’m fine,” you say, careful to keep your voice even.

“I know,” Frisk replies, voice still soft.

For a moment, you are silent.

You try to concentrate only on the feeling of Frisk’s hand in yours, not on thoughts of scars and hurt and ruin. You grip their hand far too tightly, you know, your fingers still trying to clench around something that isn’t there, but they squeeze back just as hard, digging their fingernails into your palm. The pressure is painful, but it’s a good kind of pain, a balm for all the wounds that can’t be seen.

“I don’t need to train with them,” you say at last, loosening your grip somewhat while still clinging to their hand. “I have my knife. That’s enough. That’s all I need.”

“I hope you never have to use it,” Frisk says, voice gentle.

Tears spring to your eyes, but you’re not sure if you want to laugh or cry.

The gardening dagger in your possession may be perfect for cutting plants and vines, but it’s also perfect for tracing thin red ley-lines into your skin when the urge to lash out becomes unbearable.

Frisk, being Frisk, is too kind to directly ask you not to, knowing how ashamed you’d feel if they did.

Meanwhile, you, being you, are too horrible to promise them you won’t.

There’s been so little in your life that you’ve had any control over. How are you supposed to give this up?

But...

“So do I,” you say, and together, you and Frisk watch the rest of the practice in silence.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That afternoon, Asriel leads you into a private alcove after lunch. He kisses you long and deep, but before you can point out that you’re married and no longer need to sneak around, he says, “Are you absolutely _sure_ you want to go to the ball tonight?”

“I can’t exactly back out _now,”_ you point out. “What with it being _tonight_ and all. _”_

“I know, but...you seemed so unhappy about it in the beginning,” he says, looking fairly unhappy himself. “You can spend the evening in the library if you want to. Maybe I can slip away and join you. Nobody will care. Much.”

You lift a hand to his face and gently run your fingers down his cheek. “I _want_ to come,” you reassure him. It’s not entirely true, but it’s true enough. “It will be fine. And I promise to dance with you at least once.”

Asriel brightens after that, saying, “It should be _more_ than once, since I’m your husband and all.”

You laugh and pull him down for another kiss.

 

 

* * *

 

 

You spend the evening bathing and dressing. You normally dress yourself, being unwilling to accept the assistance of a servant, but tonight you have Frisk to help you. It’s been far too long since you’ve had them to brush your hair. The sensation almost makes you feel like a child again, but for once, you mean that in a good way.

The ball is what Asriel described as a _human entertainment._ From what you can remember of such things, they’re usually intended to be grand affairs, with those who attend them being elaborately (ostentatiously) costumed. You’ve never cared much for such aristocratic posturing, which is why your past experiences with balls have always been unhappy ones. Still, the monsters will be mimicking human fashions for _your_ sake tonight. They’ll still be the same honest, kindhearted creatures you’ve come to care for. You have nothing to fear, and Asriel will see just how well you can handle yourself when the occasion calls for it.

Everyone will see you for the ruler-to-be that you are. Not a child, not a trophy, not a demon or a doll. You are _Chara._

You dress simply—a suit, with black trousers and a dark green coat edged in gold, your only ornaments being your locket, wedding ring, and the knife hidden in your boot. There are certain rules for dress tonight, given how you’re following human customs instead of monster ones. You follow them all to the letter, leaving no one room to complain. You wish to be as comfortable as possible, though, and so you had the plainest suit made that you could get away with.

Frisk, meanwhile, is all bright silk and feathers. You almost find yourself wishing that you could enter the ball with them, so that all eyes would be on their colourful ensemble instead of you, but some small, childish part of you can’t help but feel the tiniest bit excited at the prospect of entering with Asriel. A proper prince, just like the stupid, childish  you used to dream of.

Frisk departs before you, leaving you to make your way to the grand staircase alone. Fortunately, Asriel is already there waiting.

“You look...very nice,” he says shyly as you approach, and you bite your lip, forcing yourself to swallow the objection that immediately rises up.

“Thank you,” you say instead. “You do too.”

He smiles bashfully, and although you should be used to him by now, you can’t look away. He’s dressed in the violet formal robes that the Dreemurrs apparently always wear at such occasions, but it’s not the clothes that draw your attention; rather, it’s his face—how warm his eyes are on you, how kind his smile is.

Affection wells up in you, and you take his arm.

It seems unthinkable, that you could be this lucky—to be taken from your home, far away from humans, and given someone so gentle to call a husband.

You have to take advantage of it while you still can. Surely some distant god will look down on you sooner or later and realize that you’ve had more than your fair sure of good fortune.

“I love you,” you say impulsively.

For once, Asriel doesn’t squeak or become embarrassed. Instead he leans in, kissing your cheek, and whispers against your skin, “I love you too.”

The herald that announces your entrance says _Chara. Your_ name, not the one your family tried to foist on you. Despite your nerves, you feel emboldened by it. You keep your head held high, even as what feels like the entire court turns to look at you.

Once you reach the bottom of the staircase, you cast your eyes about the great hall, surveying the room beyond the sea of monsters.

At the far end of the hall hangs a banner displaying the Delta Rune. On the dais beneath it stands the king’s table, where you will be expected to sit with Asriel when the time comes. Meanwhile, the walls are hung with the violet and silver of the Dreemurr family, along with the green and gold of your own.

(You wish that you could tear them down, but that won’t do, you’re meant to play the part of the demure noble. You just won’t look at those walls, that’s all.)

You can’t help but feel a little mesmerized by all the pomp. The scent of wine and perfume, the sound of horns and strings, the whirl and prance of couples already on the dance floor—you’ve never been particularly fond of such rituals, but there’s something magical about it regardless. Then again, maybe everything is more impressive when lit by a thousand candles.

“We have to dance now,” Asriel says.

You wince. “Must we?” you ask.

“We must,” he answers, expression firm, but his eyes are glittering with amusement.

Reluctantly, you allow him to lead you out onto the floor, into the heart of the dance.

Asriel’s hand settles on your hip and the two of you begin to move, just the way you did when you were practicing in the library, and he begins to guide you round the floor, occasionally twirling you gently, smiling all the while.

You begin to blush under his attention. He smiles at you like you’ve done something particularly pleasing, but all you’re doing is allowing him to dance with you; it doesn’t seem quite right, that he should seem so happy in your company.

With every turn of the dance, Asriel seems to move closer to you, hand stealing around your waist, legs brushing against your own, but he’s careful to maintain what can be considered a proper distance, and you can’t decide whether you’re disappointed or not.

“So,” he says. “Do you feel welcome? That was sort of the intention of the ball, after all.”

“I feel…” you begin. You trail off. You’re not entirely sure how you feel; you’re too dizzy from how close Asriel seems to be trying to get. “I feel extremely stared-at.”

He laughs. “You’re human,” he says lightly. “There are bound to be plenty of people here who’ve never seen one before. They’re interested in you. And besides, you’re beautiful. Of course they’re staring.”

You find yourself blushing even deeper than you had been before. “You’re embarrassing,” you murmur, and Asriel laughs once more.

The evening plays on in dances and whispered promises accompanied by smiles and laughter, and at first, everything is bewilderingly fine. You expect to become overwhelmed at any moment, and yet you feel curiously peaceful as you dance again and again with Asriel, the dread you had been feeling before mysteriously absent.

But.

But then, in the middle of another dance, you hear somebody whisper _newlyweds_ in an indulgent tone, and Asriel is smiling at you, and…

And you suppose that’s what you are, isn’t it?

Asriel is your _husband_ , you realize, suddenly lightheaded. Not just a fantasy or a passing flirtation. You’re _married._ To _him._ To the man with his hand resting on the small of your back, staring at you with something dangerously close to adoration in his eyes.

This is real, all of this is real, you married a _prince_ and someday you will be expected to sit on the throne beside him as a sovereign and rule an entire _kingdom_ when you once thought you’d never see the light of day again.

How strange that it only seems to be sinking in now.

The crowd seems to blur together then, becoming something large and faceless, a beast rising up around you, and all at once, you feel as though you might faint.

“Are you alright?” Asriel asks as the two of you come to the end of another dance. “You look...pale. Paler than usual, I mean.”

“I should be okay,” you say, voice trembling. “I think I’d like to rest for a bit, though.”

“Let’s get some fresh air,” he says.

He takes your hand in his own, and then he’s pulling you towards the edge of the room and into the crisp night air outside.

The gardens are empty, of course. Everyone is inside enjoying the ball, leaving you free to try and get yourself together without worrying about what others may think. You stop and sit on one of the many cool stone benches, wrapping your arms around yourself, trying to steady your breathing. You’re tempted to rock, but you’ve managed to avoid doing so in front of Asriel thus far and you don’t intend to ruin that now.

“How do you feel?” Asriel asks, coming to join you on the bench. An arm slips around your shoulder. You let yourself sink against him.

“I’m think I’m okay,” you say. “I just got a bit dizzy. That’s all.”

“Was it the crowd?” he asks, sounding nervous. “I know you don’t like large crowds. If it’s too much—”

“I’m _fine_ ,” you repeat, more snappish than is probably fair, but you’d been handling the crowd perfectly well; what you’re feeling now is delayed shock, that’s all. You think. “Anyway, I can’t leave yet. I haven’t even seen Frisk.”

Asriel stiffens.

“Frisk is dancing with someone right now,” he says. “I don’t know who.”

“I want to dance with them myself at least once. This is their last night, after all.”

“Who knows when they’ll be free, though? You shouldn’t make yourself wait if you’re not doing well.”

You frown.

“What does _that_ mean?” you ask, suspicious, and a flash of guilt crosses Asriel’s face.

“Nothing,” he says.

“Tell me right this second,” you command.

For a moment, Asriel is still.

Then, in an unusually cool voice, he says, “You didn’t want to come tonight when _I_ told you about the ball. But you came for Frisk, and now you’ll stay for them.”

Oh, for... ”Asriel, are you _jealous?”_

“No,” he says, a little too quickly.

“We’ve already danced at least a _dozen times,_ ” you say, exasperated. “I’m sure we’ll dance a dozen more before the night is through. Is that not enough for you?”

“Five,” Asriel corrects mildly. “Not a dozen. A bit less than a dozen, actually.”

“That’s not the _point!_ Are you actually going to spend the entire night sulking if I dance with my friend _once?_ ”

“It’s...not Frisk, specifically,” Asriel says. “ I just...don’t really like the thought of you dancing with other people. I mean, if you or I don’t really know them, who’s to say if they’re worthy of your time or not?”  

His voice is petulant, but you think there might be just the slightest hint of shame there. Good. He _should_ feel ashamed. He’s acting positively childish, and it’s not like you've even been dancing with other people anyway. He’s been monopolizing your attention the entire evening, and you...

Wait.

“Asriel, if you were trying to convince me not to come tonight because you didn’t want to risk me dancing with anybody else, I’m going to scream,” you say, voice cold.

Asriel is silent.

You tear yourself away from him, letting his arm fall unceremoniously.

“You _pretended_ to care!” you cry.

“I wasn’t pretending,” he protests, but his voice is weak, as though he knows perfectly well how pathetic he sounds. “I really _do_ want you to be okay. Crowds _are_ hard for you. You _said_ you didn’t want to come. I just…”

“Just _nothing!”_ you snap. “You _pretended_ to care about how I was feeling, when you were only thinking about _yourself!_ I thought I could _trust_ you!”

“ _Chara,_ ” Asriel pleads. His eyes are wide with hurt, and they might have aroused pity in you in the past, but you have no time for pity, not after a betrayal such as this from one of the places you least expected it. “I just wanted to protect you, that’s all! That’s okay, isn’t it? I know you’ve been hurt before. I didn’t want you to…”

“Is that supposed to be _better?”_ you shout. He reaches for you and you shove his hand away. “Do you think wanting to keep me locked up somewhere for my _safety_ is any better than any of the _other_ reasons people have had?”

He falls silent.

“Please go away,” you say when you’ve reigned in your temper enough to speak without screaming. “I’m very angry at you right now.”

“I can’t just leave you here—”

“Yes, you absolutely _can!”_ you retort. “I can’t be with you right now. You need to go, and...and get me a drink or something, so that I can have a few minutes by myself to calm down. When you get back, we can talk about exactly why you’re in the wrong and what you can do to apologize, but for now, you need to _leave.”_

Asriel leaves.

You watch him go.

He’s supposed to be _better_ than this, you think furiously as you glare at his retreating back. You fell in love with him because he seemed to genuinely _care_ about you. Nobody had ever cared about you before, yet Asriel had been protective and affectionate and _sweet,_  everything that you had ever wanted. His attention could be oppressive at times, but you were willing to forgive him for that, so long as it never went too far.

But apparently, you’d thought too well of him.

You _really_ are an idiot, to have ever expected otherwise. You should know better than to trust others by now. The only person you can trust completely is yourself.

Your fingers curl. You think of the knife in your boot. You want to strike and cut and…

...and you won’t. You won’t let yourself collapse. Everybody wants you to be soft and weak and helpless (so that they can control, so that they can protect, whatever they may call it, it’s all the same in the end), but you’re _strong._ Strong enough to overcome even the worst of your anger without being reduced to some childish tantrum. _You are the one in control._

Deep breath. Deep breath. In, out. In, out.

When Asriel returns, you will speak to him. You won’t become hysterical or attack him. You will have a sensible conversation like any other person in your position would.

It’s...aggravating, of course, to suddenly be struck with the knowledge that even your fairytale prince has flaws, but...you know his intentions are good. It’s not like this is something unforgivable. It’s not like he _actually_ tried to lock you in your room or something. You’ve just found out that he’s a bit more selfish than you’d thought.

Still, you think you’ve earned the right to be angry for a little while.

Despite your attempts to calm yourself, you’re practically vibrating with energy. You wrap your arms around yourself as tightly as you can, digging your fingernails into your skin through your sleeves, trying desperately to hold back angry tears. You won’t allow yourself to be caught crying, not over something as foolish as this.  

If you hadn’t been so preoccupied, you might have heard them coming.

The cloth covers your face before you can so much as draw a breath, and then everything goes black.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to realize you’ve regained consciousness.

When you do, everything is dark. A part of you is almost convinced that you’re dreaming at first, only realizing otherwise when you hear a voice you cannot  recognize saying, “It’s awake.”

“Yes, it most certainly is,” you croak. You attempt to heft yourself upright, but your hands and ankles have been bound somehow, making it embarrassingly difficult. Somehow, you still manage. Only then do you get a good look at your surroundings.

A cave, you think. You blink, trying to get your eyes to adjust to the dark (amateurs, not to blindfold you). But no, the ground is too smooth. It feels like tile, almost. A tunnel of some sort? _I’ve heard rumours of secret passages beneath the castle,_ Frisk had told you, and you almost laugh. Who would have thought they were right?

Your eyes fall upon a trio of figures whom you’re fairly certain are _not_ actively trying to skulk in the shadows, but, well, skulk in the shadows they are.

Three monsters—that’s a surprise.

“Who are you?” you ask, cocking your head in genuine curiosity. “I thought monsters prided themselves on being peaceful. I wouldn’t exactly call kidnapping ‘peaceful.’”

The largest monster snores. The floating one that looks like an imp says “Tinkle tinkle hoy.”

The third, a small, winged knight wearing a mask (and apparently the only one capable of talking sense), says, “We’re mercenaries. We’ve been hired to get rid of you, Your Highness.”

“I figured out _that_ much,” you say, irritated. “Do you think you’re the first group to try? It’s just the monster part that’s a surprise.”

“Zzz.”

“Please and thank you!”

“It’s nothing personal,” says the knight. “But there are some monsters who don’t want to be aligned with the humans who almost destroyed us in the war.”

“What’s your plan, then? Why didn’t you kill me while I was unconscious?”

The knight flutters silently, somehow locking eyes with you through its mask.

Your bindings suddenly dissolve, magic traces disappearing in the dark. Your first instinct is to rub your wrists, but whatever magic had been trapping them has left no mark; no chafing or bruises whatsoever. Likewise, your ankles feel stiff, but not enough so that you don’t think you’ll be able to stand. Interesting.

Still, you remain crouching, watching the knight cautiously. It makes no move to stop you, but you’re not about to try and run, not before you know what it’s planning. You won’t let it catch you with your back turned.

Your hand drifts towards your boot.

There’s a flash of light, and then a weapon appears in the monster’s hand. Some kind of spear, you think. Twirling it once, it says, “To kill you while you were defenseless would have been dishonourable. It is best to kill you in battle.”

“Oh, so the assassin has _honour_ ,” you say, and your mouth splits into an enormous grin. Before the monster can respond, you are standing, knife in hand. “Good thing I came prepared, isn’t it?”

“A blade?” the knight says, sounding surprised, but it shakes its head dismissively. “I’m not afraid of you.”

The large monster lifts its head, raising its Morningstar. The bouncing imp spreads its hands with an “Abracadabra!”, summoning an arc of gleaming orbs.

When you’d envisioned all the ways the ball could potentially go wrong, ending up alone in a dark, underground passageway surrounded by mercenaries intent on killing you had not been one of them.

Then again, you have an awful lot of stress to work through.

“I’m not afraid either,” you say, and you lunge.

Magic falls in spirals, shimmering and iridescent, butterflies and rain and crosses. You weave through the light as it scatters, ignoring the pain that lances through your body when they hit, tearing gashes in your brand new clothes and deep red rivers on your arms and legs.

The pain is bright, but there’s nothing beautiful in it. Not like the sensation of steel against skin, not like Frisk’s fingernails digging into your palms, not like Asriel’s teeth when you kiss a little too roughly. Not like the pain you’ve chosen in the past and would choose again.

 _You_ are the one in control. The only pain you ever want to feel is the pain you choose yourself, and _you haven’t chosen this._

Your knife is an extension of your body. It’s every movement is smooth and precise. The blade glides swiftly through the air as you dodge the fall of a Morningstar and the strike of a lance, deflecting the weapons that would try and stop you, but you are careful—you don’t fight to kill, merely to disarm.

You remember what Frisk said before. _Peace is no good if it’s brought about through violent means._ They were joking, merely playing along with your nonsense, but they were right, weren’t they? Peace is meaningless if it’s obtained through shedding blood, and you want nothing to do with a false peace. The peace you’re fighting for must be perfect, absolute. You’ll settle for nothing less, not if it’s going to serve as your revenge.

But you won’t suffer in silence, either. You will fight when you need to, especially if it’s the only way to defend yourself. You won’t shy from confrontation; you can’t, not if you’re going to obtain the power you covet.

You will be good—better than what any of them ever thought you could be—but you will not be soft.

It’s like a dance, you think, sidestepping a storm of sparkling butterflies that gleam like glass shards catching the light. Your heart is pounding and you are sweating with exertion, but you feel exhilarated, almost triumphant, despite not yet having won.

You _will_ win,you decide. It’s impossible for you not to, and how could you have ever let them make you think you cannot, _should_ not do this? Fighting back is _brilliant,_ just as brilliant as you’ve always dreamed, and you’ve spent far, far too much of your life passively accepting or avoiding that which would do you harm.

Your knife clashes with the Morningstar, deflecting yet another strike. Your will to live—because despite everything, you want to _live_ —grants it a fortitude that you never could have predicted. The clang of metal against metal resonates throughout the entire passageway, despite the mace being large enough to break your dagger.

A dance, you think again, watching as the knight with the Morningstar summons what appears to be a miniature sun. You’ve only see the occasional display of monster magic, but they’ve always had such beautiful patterns. There’s a certain rhythm to them, and dodging becomes easy once you find it.

Asriel showed you _his_ magic, once; a shower of brightly-coloured stars, blooming from his soul like a field of flowers.

He’s probably worried,you realize. You’re still angry, but, well, getting to finally see a little action has done wonders for your mood. So long as he apologizes _(properly)_ , you’re ready to forgive him for now. _Just wait,_ you think, giddy. _I told you I was capable of handling any problems._

Better wrap this up quick.

Because you’ve decided this is now a dance, you start humming as you make your way through the deluge of magic. It’s one of the songs you heard the orchestra playing earlier tonight; a minuet, you think. Your movements aren’t the neat, tripping little steps that traditionally accompany it, but you don’t think your audience minds. As for you, you feel remarkably clear-headed, too focused on ending this nonsense as soon as possible to particularly care about proper protocol.

And then:

The Morningstar slips from the hands of the largest mercenary.

“Goodnight,” she murmurs, and you begin to laugh.

“More like good _knight!"_ you cry as her magic disappears. “Goodness, that was easier than I thought. How about you?” you say, turning to the bouncing imp flaunting its orbs, peering at you from beneath the brim of its hat with strange eyes. “I don’t suppose _you’re_ just going to fall—"

“Hocus pocus,” interrupts the imp. “Bibbidi-bobbidi-boo, _shazam!”_

And then it vanishes into its hat. The imp’s orbs dissolve as well, leaving only the small winged knight and the swarm of diamond-white butterflies still circling you.

“Your companions don’t wish to fight anymore, apparently,” you say. Your voice is not as impressive as you’d like; you’re wheezing far more than you’re thundering, but you raise your knife regardless and aim it at the winged knight in the hope of emphasizing your _point._ “You see now what a human can endure. Do you really wish to fight me single-handedly?”

“I’m not afraid of you,” the knight repeats, but it’s flying stutters.

“That sounds to me like one who is most certainly afraid.”

You keep your eyes fixed on the knight, watching as it nervously twirls its weapon.

Then, satisfied, you open your hand, letting your knife fall to the floor with a clatter.

“I don’t wish to fight either,” you say. “All I want to do is to return home. I could have ended this at any point by striking with the intent to kill. The fact that you are still alive is proof that I’ve been merciful tonight. Don’t make me regret it.”

“I’ve made my choice,” the mercenary says, but despite his words, the butterflies gradually begin to recede.

“Then make a _different_ choice. None of this is necessary. There may be monsters who are unhappy with the alliance, but they would suffer far more if war were to resume again. I know perfectly well that your people can’t survive another conflict. This is for _their_ sake.”

The last of the butterflies disappears.

“You care if monsters suffer?” the knight asks, sounding confused. “You are human. You have no reason to care.”

“Monsters have shown me more kindness than humans ever have,” you reply. “I have a thousand reasons to care. I wouldn’t be involved at all were it for the sake of humans alone.”

The mercenary's weapon vanishes.

“There’s still…” it begins.

However, you never learn what it was going to say next, because it’s at that exact moment that you hear a sound that can only be described as a roar.

It’s hard to pick out the shape of the beast in the darkness, but as it draws closer, you can see its burning red eyes as it lurches forward, hands electric with magic. It looks so monstrous in its rage that you almost don’t recognize it, but then you see the familiar spiral of stars rising from the hulking silhouette, and you cry,  _“Asriel!”_

 _“Chara!”_ he cries in return, and the anger immediately vanishes, magic fading as he runs to you. “Chara, we found you, thank—”

“You’re here much sooner than I was expecting,” you interrupt as he throws his arms around you. “Unless I was unconscious much longer than I estimated? I had assumed an hour or two at most, but perhaps it’s been a week. What day is it?”

“You were _unconscious?!”_

“Of course I was,” you say, shrugging out of his arms, unable to mask your irritation. “Don’t you think I’d have kicked up more of a fuss before getting to this point if I were awake?”

“B-but you...you were...I was so…” he stammers, and you see now that his eyes are bright with tears. “You were _gone_ and I looked _everywhere_ and I was so scared that you’d left because you were m-mad at me, but then I, I…”

Knights you hadn’t even noticed move forward from behind him, seizing the mercenaries, but they don’t struggle. The largest one still appears to be asleep, actually.

“Don’t hurt them,” you say. “I talked them down. They should cooperate if you question them.”

“You talked them down?” Asriel asks, looking startled.

You shrug. “I think so? I’m not sure what to call it. I might have used a little intimidation, I suppose,” you say, and you bend down to grab your knife.

When you stand back up again, Asriel is staring at you with enormous eyes.

“What?” you ask. “Is something wrong?”

Asriel is bound to be a little shocked, you realize. He probably wasn’t expecting to find you covered in your own blood and casually informing him that your would-be kidnappers shouldn’t cause trouble.

“How exactly did you intimidate them?” he asks as the guards lead the mercenaries away. The winged knight gives you a small nod as they vanish.

“Oh,” you say, glancing down at the knife in your hand. “Are you worried about _this?_ I didn’t kill any of them. There were only three to begin with.”

You stayed in control, you think, proud. It would’ve been easy to lose your temper completely, considering how irritable you’ve been lately, but you ended things as peacefully as anyone could have possibly expected from you.

“That’s not...” Asriel begins, but then he stops and shakes his head. “You _fought_ them? And you’re...you’re okay?”

“Of course I’m okay,” you answer. “It’s a good thing it ended when it did, though. My stamina isn’t the best and I don’t know how much longer I could have lasted. But these cuts are very shallow. Nothing serious.”

Asriel is still staring at you, wide-eyed.

Then, clasping his hands together in what you recognize as one of his more anxious poses, he says, “Chara, I know you’re probably still mad at me, but I was s-so worried...I know you’re okay, but can I fuss over you just a little bit?”

You consider.

“All right,” you agree. “Just this once. And only because I think the shock is setting in.”

Right on cue, your knees begin to tremble, but Asriel is instantly at your side, gathering you up into his arms and kissing your forehead. His face is damp with tears, the crybaby.

“Did you really think I’d left?” you ask as he lifts you into his arms. You’re still shaking, but his fur is such a soothing texture; you want to bury yourself in him. “I wouldn’t give all this up because of a single fight, idiot.”

“I know,” Asriel says as he cradles you. “You have plans.”

“Yes, I do, but I also _love_ you,” you correct. “You can be an enormous ass at times, but I still love you even when I’m angry. I’m not so fickle that I’d change my mind that easily. You’d have to do something a whole lot worse for me to leave.”

He doesn’t reply immediately, but his eyes grow bright with tears once more.

“Thank you,” Asriel says. “And...I’m sorry. About before. I want you to need me, but...I know you don’t. Not really.”

“Well, no. I don’t,” you agree. “But I still _want_ you.”

You rest your face against Asriel’s shoulder and let him carry you home.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Asriel takes you to your bedroom. Frisk is waiting for you there. They spring to their feet the moment they see you, but then they sit back down instead of throwing themselves at you for a hug the way they usually do. They must really have been worried, you realize.

The whole incident was poorly planned, you decide. The mercenaries likely chose the night of the ball so that they could infiltrate the castle with relative ease under the guise of guests, but now Frisk’s memories of their final night are going to be tainted with worry, and you make a mental note to never be so inconsiderate if you yourself ever become a kidnapper.

Queen Toriel comes to see you soon after. Frisk and Asriel watch anxiously from your bedside as the her magic washes over you, stitching your torn skin back together and leaving behind only thin white scars.

“I have no idea what time it is,” you say as she works. “Is the ball still going on?”

“Not...exactly,” Asriel answers weakly. “Things sort of came to a halt when I realized what had happened.”

“How did you even know, anyway? What if I _had_ simply run off?”

He cracks a slight smile. “You had said you wanted to talk when I got back. I was worried you’d left at first, but then I realized that you wouldn’t do so without letting me know exactly what I’d done wrong like you promised.”

“Oh, very funny,” you say. Beside you, Frisk snickers but says nothing. You suppose the presence of the queen must seem a little intimidating, causing them to have returned to their old habit of careful silence.

“We could sense a great deal of magic being used in the ruins of the old castle,” the queen explains. “It seemed...suspicious.”

Her hands brush your scars, letting the soothing green light seep into them. Your new skin feels taut and strange, but it’s an enjoyable sort of discomfort. Familiar. Like your body reassuring you that it knows how to heal.

“Old castle?” you ask.

“The ruins of where monsters lived during the war,” she says. “It has not been used in a long, long time. Even if we were not looking for you, we would have sent someone to investigate. All the magic being used made it clear that something was going on.”

She finishes mending the last of your wounds, then removes her hands, letting the light fade. “Now all you have to do is rest,” she says with a smile.“The magic I used draws upon your body’s natural inclination to mend. Resting aids the process.”

“Understood. Thank you very much, Your Majesty,” you say, trying to return her smile. It feels unnatural. You hope she doesn’t think you’re angry at her.

She clucks in disapproval. “I have told you before, there is no need to call me _Your Majesty,”_ she says voice stern, but her expression is playful.

Then, the queen departs, leaving you, Asriel, and Frisk alone.

“I was expecting to have to rescue you. I was ready to kill them all,” Asriel says conversationally, as though that is something one simply tells somebody.

“So I saw,” you answer dryly, remembering the way his eyes had been blazing in the dark tunnel. “Are you disappointed?”

Asriel blinks. “No,” he says, sounding almost surprised. “I’m not.”

Frisk leans in, whispering in your ear, _“He thought you were amazing.”_

You burst out laughing. Frisk begins to laugh as well, leaving only Asriel to look indignant.

You’re so exhausted that you fall asleep soon afterwards. When you awaken, Frisk is curled up beside you, fast asleep as well. Asriel is sitting on the floor, head resting on the mattress, too big to crawl in beside you, but still holding your hand in his.

You smile and let your eyes fall shut once more.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The day of Frisk’s departure, you hug them as fiercely as you can and say, “You need to visit as often as possible.”

“Of course,” they say, hugging you back just as tightly. “We need to make up for the ball. I never got to make myself sick.”

You don’t want to let go. But of course you do, eventually, and as their carriage leaves, you wave as hard as you possibly can until it’s disappeared entirely, ignoring the sting of tears in your eyes.

They’re gone for now, but you will see them soon, you decide. You’ll hold them to that. And if they don’t come to see you, you’ll just have to go meet them instead. As long as both of you want it badly enough, it will absolutely happen.

Until then, you’ll be strong. Stronger than anybody—even yourself—ever thought you could be.

The thought fills you with determination.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The next time you go to watch the knight’s practice from the wall, you hear someone approaching from behind and turn around half-expecting to see Frisk. Instead you’re faced with the captain of the royal guard staring at you appraisingly.

“You watch our practices a lot,” she says, voice clipped.

You nod. You can’t do anything else. You can’t even speak. _She’s going to tell me to stop spying on them,_ you think, terrified.

The captain’s eye narrows.

“I don’t like humans,” she says, and your heart sinks.

“Me neither,” you say before you can stop yourself. “They’re horrible.”

Her mouth splits into an enormous grin, revealing rows of pointed teeth.

“Well, hey, something we have in common!” she says, suddenly cheerful, and her stance instantly becomes relaxed. She smacks you on the shoulder. You wince from the force of it. “That’s fantastic! I just wanted to tell you that you should come down to the training ground sometime if you like watching us so much. It’s always more fun with more people around!”

“But...you just said you don’t like humans,” you say, rubbing your shoulder.

She cackles. “Yeah, I don’t! Most humans are stuck-up jerks who think they’re better than us monsters. I was worried you’d be one of the uncool ones, but you seem alright, so, yeah! You should come down sometime if you want to! It looks like it gets lonely up here, especially now that Frisk is gone.”

“You know Frisk?” you ask. You immediately chastise yourself for asking such a silly question. _Everyone_ knows Frisk. Frisk makes it their business to be known.

The captain bursts into loud, raucous laughter one more. “Course I do!” she cries. “That punk and I are like, _best friends!_ They were the one who told me you were cool too, actually.”

The corners of your mouth turn up in a slight smile. “Is that so?”

“Yup!” the captain says, and with a twirl of her wrist, a pale blue spear appears. “So, yeah, come on down sometime! You can even join in if you want to. I heard you took down those mercenary guys alone, so you gotta be pretty tough. I’m always looking for new opponents!”

She doesn’t stick around long enough for a reply, instead whirling around and running off with her spear in hand. You watch her red hair streaming behind her as she goes, and for some reason, you can’t stop smiling.

 

 

* * *

 

 

One hot day in summer, after an entire morning spent sitting with the council and discussing the minutiae of the budget, you are dressed in leather practice armour and sparring with Undyne on the training grounds. A well-timed blow to the chest sends you tumbling, but you immediately spring back up again, ignoring the pain coursing through you. It’s a good pain, a chosen pain, one that will make you strong, and for that reason, you can endure for now, if only so that you won’t have to later.

Asriel and Frisk are watching from the sidelines. You can’t afford to lower your guard long enough to look at them, but you already know what they’ll be doing. You can hear Frisk cheering from here, and as for Asriel, you’re sure he’s busy gaping at you. You almost want to stop and flex what muscles you have to make it more worthwhile for him, but you’ll settle for _winning._

Undyne is cackling, but you give her a toothy grin of your own and raise your sword. It’s just a practice sword for now, but someday _,_ you’ll have a _real_ weapon. You hope.

You lunge. Wooden blades clash, the two people you love best in the entire world are cheering you on, and even though your chest feels like it’s on fire and your entire body aches, you have never felt more complete.


End file.
